I was put together wrong (still I was made for you)
by Zsra187
Summary: In her dreams, she is loved.


**I was put together wrong (still I was made for you)**

He pushes the silk skirts she is wearing up to her thighs. Her legs unlock from their rigid, unyielding position and she brings up her knees, gasps out loud when he pushes them apart with his rough hands. The thick scent of her own arousal hits her like a slap in the face, makes her eyes water, makes her want to choke.

He laughs, unbothered by her wantonness, the undignified spectacle she's making of herself. Somehow that makes it all the worse. When he bends his head next to hers, she can feel his burned, twisted skin against her own soft cheek.

There is a war in her veins; a desperate need to keep touching him - to take his face and press it between her thighs, where her skin melts like butter under his touch - burns deep within her. But if there is desire (he grabs her through her smallclothes and she bites her bottom lip, bucks against his hand), there is also disappointment and shame.

He parts her lips with his thumbs and licks a slow line up her slit; takes that throbbing pearl between his teeth and lightly bites. Stars explode behind her eyes and she knows she wants this, wants him, with his rough ways and harsh manner and gentle touches, and all those idiosyncrasies that both terrify and intrigue her. But when she cranes her head and looks down between her parted thighs, it isn't him she sees, but a shock of blonde hair. She chokes back a sob at the sight; half disgusted, half utterly enraptured by the vision of her life the way it could have been, had the gods not decided to punish her so cruelly.

This is the way it should have been, she thinks dimly, as his tongue glides across her sensitive skin. _A king always worships his queen._

She remembers, as clear as the crisp winter sky, the day her father announced that they were to be married. She felt safe then, and loved. He called her 'my lady,' and said that she was to be his queen, and she was breathless with excitement at the thought of it. But he doesn't call her that anymore.

Now she hears those words, whispered in her ear like the most intimate of caresses. They spill from his lips and flow over her skin, the sweetest of nothings that make her sigh and tremble like a maid on her wedding night. He is her husband, and his tender kisses leave her with no doubt of the strength of his love. His slick fingers twist inside of her, gently probing, turning her mewls of desire into moans of delight. Her heart thumps, her hand grasps for his, but when her trembling fingers brush his thick swollen knuckles, it almost ruins the illusion.

She knows that she is supposed to hate him, and she's certain that she does. There is no doubt within her that she wants him defeated, wants him dead – only her frenzied states makes it impossible to separate dreams from desires. The dark, rough features of her lover melt away, their place usurped by finer cheekbones and glinting, emerald eyes. The mouth that spat such vile hatred at her in public dips to her sex, his malevolent tongue now soothing the wounds he had one inflicted upon her. The intoxicating thought coils her body like a spring thrumming with tension, then finally the wave peaks and the tears break free as her body is engulfed in the golden flames.

She comes to, gasping for air. She thought she'd managed to swallow the guilt after the death of her father, but now it blooms anew within her, creeping through her veins like a cup of spilled Dornish sour as it bleeds into a crisp, linen tablecloth. The thought of what her family would say if they knew floods her body with shame. _He is the enemy_, _Sansa._

Nonetheless, when the Hound pulls her roughly towards him - crushing her against his chest - she drapes herself over him; smothers her guilt with the thought that she is doing everything in her power to thwart them, to humiliate them, the family responsible for her own demise. Sated, she lets herself drift into blackness.

In her dreams, she is loved.

She is his queen.

* * *

**A/N**: Written for lenina20, for the prompt: Stockholm Syndrome/Enemies.

Thanks for reading, reviews are greatly appreciated.


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